Chapter 20

When his door finally opened, Mark tensed expectantly, but it was only Amanda with a tray of food.

"It's dinnertime, Dr. Sloan," she said in business-like tones before the door clicked shut behind her.

"What are you doing here?" Mark demanded anxiously. "Is something wrong?"

"I wanted to make sure you're doing okay, and besides, you really need to eat something." She noticed the worry etched into the worn lines of his pale face and how still he kept, as if he were holding himself tight to prevent himself flying off into little pieces. "Have you heard anything?" she asked gently, sitting down on the side of the bed.

"Steve's alive." Mark tried to reassure both of them, but his face was stark and his voice heavy as he remembered the price his son had paid for that confirmation.

"Thank God for that," Amanda said fervently. "Is he okay?"

"No," Mark said bleakly. "He..." His voice broke under the effort of putting the horror into words, and he looked away while he fought his emotions and brought them under control.

Amanda clasped his hand comfortingly, wishing she could do more by way of support. "You'll get him back," she told him with confidence.

Mark appreciated the brief visit and the concern of his friends, but he couldn't afford the company right now. "Thanks, honey." His voice was little more than a choked whisper, but he cleared his throat and produced a genuine smile. "You must go now and stay away. I'll be fine."

She stood up reluctantly, with a final squeeze of his hand. "Eat your food," she insisted firmly.

Amanda's gentle sympathy had lowered Mark's defenses and, once alone, his eyes glazed and burned with tears he refused to shed. He blinked them away, but exhaustion and fear seeped into his bones, stealing away the last vestiges of his energy.

It had been 36 hours since he'd last slept, and he debated the wisdom of taking a quick nap, knowing his head would be clearer for the healing influence of sleep. Before he could persuade his mind to release the overwhelming tension that grasped it, a dull thud from out in the hall alerted him to unusual happenings outside his room.

He sat up, suddenly alert, as the door opened and one of the police officers entered, dragging the inert body of his companion, the man who'd checked on Mark earlier. His medical instincts aroused, Mark asked with concern, "Is he alright? What happened?"

"Shut up and do what you're told." The cop was sweating heavily despite the pleasant temperature of the room, and he ran a nervous tongue over dry lips. "He's just taking a little nap, don't worry. A little Versed in his coffee."

Mark swung his legs out of the bed, balancing gingerly on his foot. "How much was he given?"

The cop ignored him, peering out the door and gesturing in a man dressed in an orderly's uniform and pushing a wheelchair. "Get in the chair. If anyone asks, we're escorting you down to physical therapy."

Mark satisfied himself that the cop on the ground had a regular pulse and was breathing properly, then obeyed the order, his own heart pounding more at the anticipation of seeing his son again than at the realisation that he was delivering himself into the hands of the enemy.

Ever curious, he tipped his head up to stare at the crooked cop. "Isn't my absence going to be a little hard to explain?"

"A little drink of coffee and I take a nap too. We've both been drugged by your accomplices and you escape. Maybe not too good for my career, but that's in the toilet anyway." The bitterness in his voice was matched by the acrimony in his expression, but as he turned away from Mark there was a strange pop behind them and a dark, wet flower blossomed briefly above a hole in his uniform, and he crumpled to the ground, dead eyes staring at the ceiling.

Mark whirled around, stunned, to face the killer, for a brief moment thinking he'd be next, more surprised than fearful. But the orderly merely unscrewed the silencer with gloved hands, replacing it in his pocket and throwing the gun on the ground. Mark followed its line of flight, his gaze skittering back to the dead policeman. The man was a traitor, but he didn't deserve to die like that.

"Get back in the chair, Dr. Sloan."

Mark turned back to meet the flat, emotionless eyes of the assassin. "Why?" he demanded.

The man shrugged, unaffected by the casual brutality of his actions. "The gun belongs to your son."

Mark nodded slowly, able to fill in the rest. It was a frame up, one intended to insure that Steve could never turn back to the department for help, and maybe also that his death would not be closely investigated. It would be assumed that Steve had killed a fellow cop while breaking his father out of the hospital. However, as he lowed himself stiffly into the wheelchair, Mark had to suppress an almost hysterical laugh as he recognised that the gun wasn't his son's, but the weapon lent to him by Masters. If they ran the prints on it, there would be a shock in the department. The mistake on Canin's part was oddly reassuring, proving he was far from infallible.

Mark kept his face lowered as they emerged from the room, not wanting to catch anybody's eye and cause comment, but this wing of the floor was quiet, and they arrived at the elevator without incurring comment. Mark heaved a sigh of relief as the elevator door closed behind them.

The killer dug into a bag behind the wheelchair and came up with a jacket which he threw at Mark before draping a blanket over his knees. Lastly, he gave him a hat. It was a minimal disguise, and Mark knew it wouldn't pass muster against the prying eyes of any journalists who doggedly remained outside.

"How're we getting out?" he asked, ready to offer helpful assistance to prevent the possibility of any more deaths.

"Service entrance," the man replied laconically.

Mark had no better suggestion, so he kept quiet. Their exit was achieved without complications, and he was wheeled to a car and transferred to the passenger seat. The wheelchair was left abandoned forlornly on the sidewalk as they drove away.

Mark stole a glance at the driver, fighting a sense of unreality as they cruised peacefully through the streets. His appearance was unremarkable, thinning brown hair fading back from an average face. Illogically, Mark felt that it would have been easier to come to terms with cold-blooded murder if cruelty were apparent in the demeanor of the killer. Reducing the taking of human life to the level of a business transaction was more chilling than overt viciousness. The man was unfazed by Mark's scrutiny as he maneuvered easily through the heavy rush-hour traffic.

Their route seemed aimless, and Mark realised that the man was checking for any signs of covert pursuit. The frequent lane changes and unexpected weaving between vehicles were designed to expose a shadow. Mark knew no one was following, so he shut his eyes, allowing the rhythmic motion of the car to rock him into an uneasy doze, knowing he'd need his wits about him if he was to ensure his son's survival in the upcoming confrontation.

He woke up abruptly at the cessation of noise and movement as the car stopped and the engine was turned off. In the twilight he could see nothing but a deserted cliff. Although his head was still fuzzy from long-denied sleep, a sliver of fear still penetrated his bemusement.

"What's going on?" he asked thickly. He met the bland eyes of the killer sitting next to him.

"Just precautions, nothing to worry about."

The man slid smoothly out of the car, walking round to open Mark's door and assisting him to his feet. He frisked Mark in a careful but impersonal manner then threw him some clothes with orders to change. Mark did as he was instructed, grateful for the warm evening air, but struggling with maneuvering while burdened by two casts. The pants simply wouldn't fit over his leg cast and after a mild protest he was allowed to retain his pajama bottoms after the killer had searched every inch of material.

His clothes, including the cell phone, were left in a small heap on the cliff top, and Mark was allowed back in the car. His driver was in no hurry to leave, leaning against the hood and smoking a cigarette as he watched the last rays of the sun dissolving into the glittering ocean.

Eventually he heard the killer pull out his own cell phone. "No activity here, we're clear," and Mark allowed himself one satisfied smile before settling back into the appearance of sleep that soon slipped into reality.

Some atavistic instinct warned him when they were nearing their destination, and he awoke as they drove through the steel gates, guarded by two armed men and an array of cameras, to an impressive mansion. The exterior was ostentatious, with a grand stairway leading to a columned portico, but Mark's gaze lingered longest on the high walls surrounding it which were topped with barbed wire, giving the edifice more the feel of a fortress than a residence. Fear snaked up Mark's spine at the sight of such formidable defenses.

The steps proved something of a hindrance to a man in a leg cast. His escort produced a crutch, but since his left arm was also in a cast, his mobility remained considerably impaired.

The architecture inside was also impressive, but although he automatically memorised the layout of the building, Mark's eyes were busy searching for his son, and he was in no mood for art appreciation. He was shown into a large room, illuminated, in the absence of light through the large French windows, by an elaborate chandelier.

There was classic artwork on the walls and luxurious studded leather armchairs in which three men sat, clustered around a leather-bound oak desk. Two were heavyset with a brutish quality Mark associated with a professional thug, but the third immediately captured his attention. He was lean but wiry, with eerily pale eyes that glittered triumphantly at the sight of Mark.

"Dr. Sloan, so glad you could join us."

Mark leaned heavily on his crutch. "Ross Canin," he acknowledged blandly.

"My fame has spread," Canin threw his arms out expansively, inviting appreciation from his audience of bodyguards.

Mark had never met Canin before in person, and now he added to his impressions of the man who'd once saved his life but who had also ordered his execution. Luck had placed Canin in charge of the large crime organisation on the demise of the Ganzas, yet he had capitalised on his fortuitous rise to consolidate his power to a remarkable degree. This wasn't a man to be underestimated. He'd shown himself to be ruthless and highly intelligent.

Confronted finally by his adversary, Mark's slow burn of anger turned scalding, and he longed to turn loose the words of scathing venom that filled his heart. Not only his son but also his father had been a cop, and his admiration for their courageous and selfless service was boundless. Just one dirty cop besmirched the reputation of the whole force, making it harder for such honourable men as his son to do their jobs. Yet Mark's role was to play for time, and insulting his host would not serve that end.

He longed, with a deep visceral craving, to see Steve, but his son's presence would likely precipitate events best postponed so, for now, Mark decided not to demand to see Steve but to play to the man's weakness and pander obliquely to his vanity.

Trying to assume a more defeated demeanor than he actually felt, he asked humbly, "Did you have to kill the cop in the hospital? We're already in so deep with the LAPD that they've probably issued a shoot-on-sight order."

Canin's smile slid wider, although he didn't cease chewing his gum. "I'm a careful man, Dr. Sloan. I believe in taking precautions. You should appreciate that. You have a reputation for being meticulous with details yourself."

Canin gave an exaggerated shiver. "We should be shaking in our shoes. You've single-handedly filled jails with all the criminals you've caught." Again, he cast his eyes around to make sure his henchmen appreciated his humour. They gave dutiful smiles, but clearly didn't regard the elderly man, oddly attired mostly in pajamas, as a threat.

Mark lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "You've got my son. I would never do anything to endanger his life."

Canin picked up on the sincerity behind the words, but not the obvious corollary underneath that Mark wouldn't risk his son by attempting a solitary rescue. Canin waggled his finger at Mark reprovingly. "You can't afford an Achilles Heel in this business, and speaking of business, Dr. Sloan," he leaned forward intently, "where's my notebook?"

The cat had finished playing with the mouse and was now ready to strike.

"If I'd had it on me when arrested," Mark replied evenly, "the police would now have it." He smiled disarmingly. "Besides, I'd like more than your simple assurance that we'll be allowed to go free."

Canin's piercing eyes passed through wintry on their way to frigid. "You disappoint me, Dr. Sloan. I thought we had an understanding."

"We do. I'm just making sure you don't renege on your part of the deal," Mark reassured him.

"Get the cop in here," Canin ordered in arctic tones.

Mark watched as the two thugs left the room, and his right hand grasped the crutch so tightly his knuckles gleamed white.

"Dr. Sloan."

Mark's attention swung back to Canin as, with a chilling smile of anticipation at odds with his words, he said. "I've forgotten my manners. Please, take a seat on the couch. Would you like a drink?"

Mark shook his head, refusing the offer of liquor but sinking gratefully into a nearby couch, needing the support it offered. Canin ignored his refusal, handing him a glass of expensive brandy.

The air felt curiously thick, heavy with an impending storm, charged so that the slightest spark of provocation would set off an explosive conflagration, and Mark's skin crackled with anticipation. In the end, it was no spark but a jagged bolt of lightening in the form of a solitary shot that obliterated the oppressive tension, replacing it with a sharp flash of fear. Mark rose abruptly to his feet as if yanked up by strings from above, knowing instinctively that his son was in the middle of this altercation and terrified that the situation had unraveled before help was at hand.

Canin glared towards the door in a mixture of fury and suspicion. Pulling his gun out of its holster, he grabbed Mark with his free hand. "Let's go find out what's happening," he growled.

It was unnecessary for Canin to pull Mark as viciously as he did since Mark was just as eager as he was to discover what was happening, but was impeded again by the cast. It was clear from the shouting and footsteps that they were not the only ones converging on the sound of the shots.

Mark was dragged into a well-stocked kitchen, the domestic smell of spaghetti sauce clashing with the chilling sight that met his eyes. Assorted weaponry in a multitude of hands directed his attention to Steve, the target of all sights, who lay, barely visible, in the shelter of a dark doorway. Luckily, Canin's men had been disciplined enough to hold their fire until their boss had arrived, so a blood bath had so far been avoided.

With an appalled, wordless sound of protest at the sheer magnitude of firepower aimed at Steve, Mark took an involuntary step forward, instinctively trying to place himself between his son and the lethal threat. He was jerked backwards, a restraining arm wrapped firmly around his neck. With a sense of disbelief he realised that, for the second time in almost as many days, he would be used as a hostage to force his son's compliance.

For a moment, he contemplated using casts or crutch as a weapon, but he realised that resistance wouldn't serve them. He was sure Steve didn't have a spare gun this time, and the forces against them were overwhelming. However, there did exist the faint hope of eventual rescue.

Canin frog marched Mark into the centre of the room, using him as a shield.

"Let him go, Canin." Mark could hear equal parts fear and exhaustion mixed in with the fury in his son's voice.

"Whatcha going to do Sloan?" Canin taunted him. "Are you going to play this one by the book?" He referred to the official departmental policy not to surrender a weapon in such a hostage situation. "Or do you think your hand's steady enough to take me out without hitting your father. Go for it!" He actually sounded amused at the situation.

"If you hurt him, you'll never get the notebook," Steve warned, playing his last card.

"But your father's not going to be much use with a hole in him," Canin countered.

"Please, Steve." Mark hoped that, to the others, his plea would sound like that of a terrified man, but that his son would know him well enough to read the sub-text. He couldn't see Steve's eyes in the dark, but tried to convey with his own the message that this was not the end play.

"Don't hurt him." Surrender was heavy in his son's voice and the gun slid across the floor. The two nearest men jumped into the doorway to seize him, pulling him brutally to his feet. As Canin's hold loosened, Mark shook off his grasp, moving forward, eager to get to his son, but his steps slackened as he got his first clear look at him. Where it wasn't marred by bruises, Steve's skin was bleached to a shade of translucent chalk that contrasted sharply with the two-day growth of beard and the dark smudges under his eyes. His clothes were stiff with dried blood, and some darker areas indicated more recent bleeding. Mark felt his throat tighten with helpless empathy and his stomach heave, fighting down outraged nausea for his son's suffering.

Steve's face was controlled but as he met his father's eyes, he was unable to shutter the windows to his soul, and Mark could read a love so fierce it hurt, coupled with a haunting desperation that he could no longer protect his father.

Although he wasn't feeling too steady himself, Mark pushed one of the thugs supporting Steve out of the way, replacing him as a prop, needing to help his son. He could feel the heat radiating off Steve and the constant tremors that shook his frame as he struggled to keep his feet. They were both at the end of their endurance, but in grim accord they faced Canin in united defiance.